


chicken soup for the bard's soul

by handwrittenhello



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dehydration, Delirium, Deus Ex Machina, Established Relationship, Fever, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pneumonia, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Vomiting, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25278799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: Geralt doesn't have much experience dealing with sick humans, but he's learning how to take care of one very particular bard who won't stop following him around.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 433





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is unbeta'ed, so if you see any mistakes let me know!

There was absolutely nothing Jaskier hated worse than getting sick.

(Well, perhaps he hated Valdo Marx more. But only barely.)

He _hated_ the way that his throat scratched at every swallow and every uttered word, the way his nose and ears clogged up to send him off balance, the way that his head swam with fever. He avoided getting sick with a passion that bordered on religiosity—stayed hydrated, made sure to bathe as often as possible, turned tail as soon as he saw signs of sickness in anyone else.

Of course, even with all the precautions in the world, sometimes there was just no avoiding it. The first time he caught a cold while on the road with Geralt, he tried to hide it—smothering his coughs, talking and singing for hours on end as if his throat wasn’t killing him. He thought he could get away with it, at least until they reached the inn they stayed at for the night.

Jaskier thought he might actually be able to afford his own room, for once; he hadn’t much extra coin in his purse, but surely he could perform a few songs to make up the extra cost.

Geralt promptly squashed that idea, though. “A room and a bath, please,” he requested, glaring at Jaskier when he sputtered and tried to interrupt.

While Geralt went outside to take care of Roach, Jaskier headed upstairs to collapse on the bed, just for a little bit. He just needed to close his eyes for ten minutes, and then he could head back downstairs for food and song.

What _actually_ happened was that Jaskier woke up a solid ten hours later, boots removed and blankets pulled up to his chin. His head felt like it was filled with feathers, and his breath had wheezed uncomfortably every time he’d inhaled.

Geralt was sitting in the chair across the room, eyes closed but not asleep. However, when he heard Jaskier shift under the sheets, he snapped to alertness, eyeing Jaskier critically. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Fine,” Jaskier opened his mouth to say, but instead ended up coughing and hacking up mucus. He didn’t notice Geralt get up, but seconds later there was a hand hovering awkwardly above his back, and a cup full of water being held out to him.

He took it gratefully, sipping at it in the hopes that it would quell the dryness in his throat.

Geralt sat patiently next to him until he was done. Jaskier handed the cup back to him and threw the covers off, dreading getting up but absolutely unwilling to be left behind.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked, brow furrowed. He set the cup down and placed hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, gently but firmly pushing him to lie back again.

“What are _you_ doing?” Jaskier countered. “I’ll not stay behind while you gallivant off to fight monsters without me!”

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re sick, and you need rest.” Geralt’s frown deepened. “Speaking of, when were you planning on telling me?”

Jaskier gulped. He was _so_ in trouble now. There was almost nothing Geralt hated worse than being lied to. “Never?” he squeaked. “I’m fine, I promise, let me just get a cup of tea for my throat and I’ll be right as rain.”

“ _Jaskier.”_ Geralt shook him a little. That, combined with the admonishment, made Jaskier finally stop struggling against Geralt’s grip, not that he had been making much headway anyways. “Why won’t you just admit you’re sick?”

“Because then you’ll leave me behind,” he whined. He hadn’t wanted to say that aloud, but perhaps the fever was addling his brain a bit more than he thought. He sniffed.

“What?”

“You’re a _witcher,_ you don’t get sick.”

“You’re not making any sense, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pouted. He was making perfect sense; why couldn’t Geralt see it? “Well, sorry for being a simple human who gets simple human colds!”

Geralt shook his head in exasperation. “I’m not upset that you have a cold, Jaskier. I’m upset that you felt the need to hide it from me.”

Oh. Geralt wasn’t mad? But did that mean— “So you’re not going to leave me here?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re mad that I lied. Because I’ll only slow you down,” Jaskier said matter-of-factly.

“You already slow me down,” Geralt grinned. As Jaskier’s expression became more despondent, Geralt hurried to amend his statement. “I don’t mind, Jaskier. We can stay until you’re feeling better. There’s no rush.”

Jaskier couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’ll wait here? You won’t take off in the middle of the night?” he asked, squinting suspiciously. It was true; Geralt had indeed left in the middle of the night a few times, back when he was still trying to shake the bard tailing him. Jaskier had always caught up in the end, though.

“I’ll wait here until you’re well enough to travel,” Geralt promised.

And he did. He ordered soup for Jaskier—easier to eat with a sore throat, and the steam rising from it would help to clear his congestion up. He only left briefly in the middle of the day to take Roach out for some exercise.

Jaskier spent most of the day napping, mind numb from boredom. He woke in the late afternoon, though, and couldn’t fall back asleep all night for all his coughing. Geralt sat up with him, keeping the fire going, and when, near dawn, Jaskier coughed hard enough that he nearly puked, Geralt fetched the healer.

If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he would think that Geralt was actually _worried about him._ They’d only been traveling together for a few months, but that was long enough for Jaskier to know that Geralt was adamant on not showing any emotion. He liked to claim that witchers didn’t have emotions, but of course that was horseshit. Witchers no more lacked emotion than Jaskier lacked talent. And he was a very talented bard.

But to see this, Geralt near-vibrating with anxious energy, hovering over Jaskier’s sickbed as the healer worked? It was touching.

Now if only Jaskier could stop _coughing_ long enough to enjoy it.

Some time later, when spots were beginning to float in front of Jaskier’s eyes from lack of oxygen, the healer, looking tired and overworked, shoved a vial in front of his face. “Drink,” she ordered.

Jaskier forced it back in between bouts of coughs, and nearly started coughing again afterwards from the sheer shock of the taste. “Eurgh, that’s _disgusting,”_ he proclaimed in a scratchy voice. “Why can’t it ever taste nice, like, I dunno, cherries?”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt ordered, and now that he said it, sleep did sound nice. He was overcome with a wave of tiredness—it happened so quickly, Jaskier was sure it had to be artificial. Something in the healer’s concoction, probably.

That was the last thought Jaskier had before sleep claimed him.

He woke again some indeterminate time later, but the world was still dark outside the window. He’d slept the whole day away.

Geralt wasn’t in the room, but the fire was still roaring strong, so he couldn’t have been gone more than an hour or two. Jaskier was feeling better, well enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed and push himself to his feet. Geralt had left food on the table for him—it was gone cold by now, but still delicious, a rich venison stew that sated the hunger he didn’t know he had.

Jaskier mopped up the last bits of stew with the bread, washing it all down with water, leaving the ale for when his head stopped its pounding. Then, feeling unbearably sweaty and stale, he ordered a bath brought up.

Geralt returned just as he was lowering himself into the piping hot water. He dumped his gear by the door—had he taken on a contract? —and strode over to the tub, sticking a hand in with no preamble.

“If you want a turn, you’ll have to wait,” Jaskier said. “I don’t see any beastie guts on you, so just sit yourself down and wait for me to finish,” he continued, but Geralt wasn’t listening. He shook the water off his hand and left the room again. “That was weird,” Jaskier muttered to himself. But he didn’t much concern himself with it, grabbing a washcloth and his favorite lavender soap to scrub himself clean.

He was just ducking his head underwater to rinse the soap from his hair when Geralt marched back into the room, bucket in hand.

“What are you doing with that?” Jaskier asked, or rather tried to ask—he was abruptly cut off by a deluge of cold water poured on his head. He spluttered, utterly shocked by the contrast in temperature.

“What on earth was that for?” he finally shouted when he got his wits about him again.

“Too hot,” Geralt grunted. “Can’t make your fever worse.”

“The water was _perfectly fine,_ thank you very much! Now you’ve gone and made it freezing.” He shivered, but it was more for dramatic effect.

“You’ll be fine. It’s not like you can catch cold again,” Geralt quipped, a rare grin on his face.

“A witcher who knows his wordplay! I’m supposed to be the bard, here.” Now that he thought about it, the lukewarm water actually felt nicer on his feverish skin than the hot water had—but gods forbid he let Geralt know that. Instead he finished rinsing out his hair, leaning back against the edge of the tub when he was done.

Geralt let him doze, until it seemed like he actually was in danger of falling asleep in the tub. A hand shaking his shoulder roused him. “‘M up,” he mumbled, blinking heavily.

“I’ve changed the sheets. You should sleep,” Geralt informed him.

“But I’ve done _so much_ of that lately,” Jaskier complained, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was actually looking forward to being horizontal again.

As he dried off, Geralt helped steady him with a strong grip around his waist; he had complained of dizziness and Geralt didn’t want to risk him falling. Jaskier was a bit uncomfortable at the close contact when he was naked as the day he was born, but forced himself to ignore it. If they were to be traveling together for a while yet, which Jaskier fully intended on, then he would eventually have to get over his shyness.

The fresh sheets were soft against his achy limbs, and Jaskier settled into bed with a deep sigh of contentment.

But something was still niggling at his attention, something important.

“Geralt? Aren’t you going to sleep?” Jaskier cracked an eye open to peer at Geralt, who was once again sitting in a chair, rather than getting ready for bed.

“I’m fine.”

“But when was the last time you slept?” As far as Jaskier could remember, it had been at least a couple of days.

“I meditated.”

“That’s not the same and you know it. Come on, even big scary witchers need their beauty sleep.”

“Are you calling me ugly?”

Jaskier smiled. “I would never dare to insult the magnificent White Wolf in such a way.” He pulled back the covers, shivering a bit when a cold draft invaded. “Come on, I promise not to sneeze on you.”

Geralt sighed, but climbed into bed with Jaskier. Sharing a bed in an inn was nothing new, but Jaskier’s determination not to touch Geralt wasn’t. Even after the bath, he felt icky and self-conscious. The bed simply wasn’t big, though, and Jaskier ended up nearly hanging off the edge in his attempts to distance himself.

After the third time Jaskier had to jerk himself back from the edge, Geralt sighed and slung an arm around his waist, tugging him closer, until Jaskier’s back was pressed against Geralt’s chest. He tensed.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled, sounding completely unconcerned. It was that that allowed Jaskier to finally relax.

He felt tremendously better in the morning, and Geralt deemed him well enough to travel again, with strict orders to tell Geralt if he needed a rest or started feeling poorly again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier got sick quite often over the course of twenty-two years, but rarely was it serious. There was one time, however, when he got dangerously ill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, I got caught up editing my big bang fic. this one goes out to charlie!! <3
> 
> also, I updated the tags. this chapter contains vomiting!

Jaskier got sick quite often over the course of twenty-two years, but rarely was it serious. There was one time, however, when he got dangerously ill.

They were somewhere in Velen—Jaskier didn’t know the name of the village, only knew that they were passing through on their way to Vizima.

They were travelling along a river in the dusky evening light when Geralt suddenly pulled Roach to a halt, looking into the distance intently.

“What is it?” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt didn’t answer, but at that moment, six drowners burst through the treeline in a frenzy. He drew his silver sword in an instant, slapping Roach on the flank to urge her away from the fight. Jaskier yelped and spun around, stumbling backwards as two of them lunged for him, barely avoiding claws to the face.

Unfortunately, that meant that he didn’t see the ledge until it was too late. His stomach dropped as his feet, previously on solid ground, found nothing but air beneath them. He tumbled down the bank until he landed in the river with a splash.

It was bitingly cold, filled with snowmelt as it was, and Jaskier was frozen in shock for a precious few seconds while his brain tried to reboot. That gave the drowners time to catch up to him, and they wasted no time in latching on like limpets, dragging his unresisting body to the bottom.

The pain of their claws digging into his legs overcame his shock, and he thrashed wildly, fists occasionally connecting with cold limbs, but not enough to hurt them. Not enough to free himself from their icy grasp, as he sank deeper and deeper.

His lungs were beginning to burn with the need for air, his vision going dim at the edges _. I’m going to die here,_ he thought somewhat hysterically. Why couldn’t it have been something heroic, like a griffin?

It eventually became too much, his lungs spasming for a breath, and he found himself inhaling reflexively, finding nothing but brackish, dirty water entering his mouth.

It was at that moment that a steady hand gripped his arm, tugging upwards. He heard the drowners below him scream, felt their claws release him, and moments later he was breaching the surface, violently coughing up water.

Geralt—for of course it was the witcher who had saved him—dropped him on the sandy bank, and Jaskier found himself being turned onto his side as water erupted from his mouth, blessedly sweet air taking its place in his lungs. He hacked and coughed and gasped, forcing the endless fount of water out. A firm hand beating up and down his back helped him find some semblance of a rhythm, and eventually, what felt like hours later, he was finally able to breathe without triggering another bout of coughing.

The hand on his back had switched from beating to rubbing soothingly. It felt nice, and Jaskier relished in the comfort as he lay on the wet sand, panting, utterly spent.

It was getting colder as the sun went down, and Jaskier shivered in the face of a particularly harsh breeze. His wet clothes were clinging to him in an entirely unpleasant way.

“Fuck, that’s cold,” he cursed, pushing himself up to sitting. He wrapped his arms around himself in a feeble attempt to retain some warmth. “Thanks for the rescue. What a way to go that would have been, taken down by a few measly drowners.”

“Hmm. We should make camp, start a fire. Don’t want you to catch cold. I hate when you slow me down,” he teased, and it was such an old joke between them that Jaskier knew there was no real heat to it.

“Of course not. And I can see to that wound on your leg you’re trying to hide from me,” he shot back, pushing himself to his feet.

Geralt even let Jaskier ride Roach as they traveled deeper into the woods, away from the carnage at the shore that might attract even more necrophages. Jaskier was grateful for the warmth of Geralt’s body in front of him, clinging to him despite the gore still sticking to his armor in places. Nonetheless, his teeth were chattering by the time Geralt deemed them far enough away, and Jaskier wasted no time in stripping off his clothes and hanging them over a low branch.

He toweled off as Geralt gathered firewood and set it alight with a quick Igni, then wrapped himself tight in their thickest blanket. “What I wouldn’t give for a warm bath right now,” he moaned sometime later, shifting as close to the fire as possible without setting the blanket alight.

Geralt frowned at him from where he was skinning a pair of rabbits he had caught for their dinner. “Are you that cold?” he asked.

“Yes, that river was bloody freezing! I know you witchers don’t get the cold, but I know you know what it feels like, at least.”

“But you should have warmed up by now.” Geralt set the rabbits down and walked over to where Jaskier was huddled on the ground. Uncaring of Jaskier's protests, he unwrapped the blanket and pressed a hand to Jaskier’s chest. It must have been bad, because he grimaced at whatever he felt.

“Your core temperature is too low. Fuck.” He grabbed their bedrolls and swiftly stripped out of his armor. Jaskier again protested as Geralt stole his blanket away, but those protests died down as Geralt replaced it with his own body wrapped around Jaskier. Gods, but his body heat was heavenly. Geralt then situated the blankets and bedrolls such that not an inch of him was exposed to the chilly air.

He quickly sank into a doze inside of his new cocoon, shivering slowing down as his body temperature rose. He and Geralt often cuddled (especially after certain bedroom activities), and they had also shared body heat before, but never had it felt this good. Jaskier’s muscles relaxed one by one, until he felt like a melted pile of goo.

“Better?” Geralt’s rumbling voice roused him, jumping a little as he felt the vibration in Geralt’s chest against his cheek.

“Much,” he replied. “I should fall in rivers more often.” His sentiment was ruined, however, by a barking cough taking him by surprise. “Blegh. Though I could do without the whole ‘swallowing an ocean of water’ part.”

Geralt rubbed his back through the coughing fit, a furrow in his brow. “We should see a healer tomorrow.”

“I’m not sick, though. I’ll be right as rain in the morning, you’ll see.” Geralt looked unimpressed. “I swear, I’m not lying. I feel fine, just a bit chilly.”

“Hmm. Any signs of illness appear, you tell me immediately, alright?” Geralt acquiesced.

“Of course, my darling overprotective witcher.” Jaskier countered Geralt’s glare with a sunny smile. “You know I love it. And you.”

Geralt’s expression smoothed out at that, his eyes widening just a bit, as if he still couldn’t believe what he was hearing, even after Jaskier had repeated it so many times. He clutched Jaskier closer, laying a kiss on the top of his head. “I love you too.”

Jaskier relaxed back against Geralt again, and was on the verge of falling asleep before he remembered. “Weren’t you going to cook those rabbits?”

He regretted saying it almost as soon as the words had left his mouth. Geralt, apparently deeming him warm enough without his help, untangled himself from the nest of blankets around them, but made sure to tuck them carefully around Jaskier as he left.

The rabbit was delicious, even if Jaskier had to come out of his cocoon to eat it. It seemed like Geralt had finally taken his advice about spices.

After dinner, Jaskier would normally spend a few hours composing, or else practicing. Tonight, though, his brush with death had him exhausted. He scooted his bedroll closer to the fire and lay down to try and sleep, while Geralt sorted the herbs and other various potion ingredients he had gathered earlier.

Despite his exhaustion, though, Jaskier just couldn’t get comfortable enough to fall asleep. He kept shivering at random moments, overtaken by a sudden chill, and every time he shifted, he felt a tickle in his lungs that forced a cough out of him.

He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him each time he coughed. He didn’t want to worry the witcher—Geralt was always overprotective of him, even if Jaskier secretly enjoyed it.

Apparently it got to be too much for him, though, as a little while later Geralt peeled back the blanket and joined him in the bedroll. His body heat was a welcome addition. Jaskier’s shivering slowly petered out as Geralt warmed the bedroll. Jaskier fell asleep with his head pillowed on Geralt’s bicep and with Geralt’s other arm wrapped tightly around his chest.

His dreams were murky, bringing with them a vague feeling of dread. At first, he didn’t know what it was that pulled him from his troubled sleep—didn’t even know that he was awake, at first.

“Jaskier, wake up. Jaskier,” Geralt called, shaking his shoulder gently. Jaskier opened his eyes to see that Geralt was crouched in front of him, holding a bowl and pestle. The faint aroma of herbs—was that clove?—wafted out of it.

“Geralt?” Jaskier croaked, feeling like he could barely gather enough air to speak.

“You’re running a fever,” Geralt informed him, placing a palm on his forehead as if to punctuate his point. “I need you to drink this. It’ll help until we can get to an actual healer.”

Geralt set the bowl down, sliding a hand between Jaskier’s shoulder blades as he helped him sit up. As Jaskier rose into a vertical position, a sudden bout of nausea overtook him.

He turned to the side just in time to avoid puking all over his lap and Geralt’s. It was mostly water, though Jaskier mourned the loss of that delicious rabbit. Geralt had jumped to his feet when Jaskier started throwing up, but sank to his knees and rubbed Jaskier’s back as he shuddered through the waves of nausea.

When it seems like he was finally done, Geralt picked up the bowl again and held it to Jaskier’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded, but his voice was gentle. Jaskier sipped at it and was surprised to find that it tasted sweet…with a hint of cherry. He smiled.

Geralt set the bowl on the ground when it was empty, then gently lowered Jaskier to lie down again. “Let’s hope you can keep that down,” he grunted. “Won’t do any good otherwise.”

Jaskier hoped so, too, but it seemed the gods were not on his side tonight. He lay miserably in his bedroll for all of ten minutes, trying to get back to sleep, feeling sicker and sicker with every minute that passed. He groaned, turning onto his side and curling up, crossing his arms over his stomach.

It didn’t help; if anything, it made his head spin with nausea, and he had to sit up and empty his stomach again. Geralt, who had been sitting across camp mending a tear in his armor, rushed over at the first sign of movement from Jaskier, once again stroking a hand up and down his back. It felt nice, a feeling Jaskier clung to as his stomach cramped painfully and he heaved and gagged.

He collapsed back into his bedroll when he was finished, wanting faintly to cry from how miserable he felt. He didn’t get much more than a moment’s rest, however, as Geralt was nudging him back to a sitting position shortly after, holding out a waterskin. “Need to keep hydrated,” he said, insistently pressing it into Jaskier’s hands.

Jaskier drank a bit, waiting to see how he felt. As soon as he took the first sip of water, he realized just how thirsty he actually was, which was strange considering how much water he’d swallowed in the river.

He went to take another sip, but Geralt stopped him. “Slowly,” he advised. “You have to keep it down.”

Jaskier frowned, but complied, taking small sips every couple of minutes. He managed to finish the entire waterskin without puking, which he considered an accomplishment. After observing him for a bit longer, Geralt deemed it safe for him to lie back down and go to sleep, which Jaskier did happily.

Unfortunately, he woke not an hour later, violently shivering and with his stomach in knots. He groaned, shifting closer to the fire while wrapping his arms around his drawn-up knees. He heard movement to his right—dirt shifting, a light sigh from Geralt.

Footsteps approached, and then there was a cool hand against his forehead. A muttered curse.

“Sorry,” Jaskier croaked. He hadn’t wanted to wake Geralt.

“Don’t apologize, I was only meditating. How do you feel?” he asked.

“Cold. Hurts.”

“What, your stomach?” Geralt asked. Jaskier nodded. “Lie on your back for me.”

Though it hurt to move, Jaskier uncurled from his position, lying supine. With infinitely gentle hands, Geralt pressed on his abdomen, probing. Jaskier could feel the hardness of his own stomach against Geralt’s touch, like a rock in his stomach. Geralt obviously could too, and he frowned. At that moment, he pressed a little too hard in the wrong spot, and Jaskier yelled.

“Sorry,” Geralt soothed. “I’m done. I think you’ve got a stomach bug from swallowing the river water.”

“Lovely,” Jaskier gritted out.

“You also have a fever, and I don’t have any more of that fever-reducing brew.”

“You’re just full of good news tonight, aren’t you?”

Geralt ignored him, which Jaskier thought was pretty rude, considering he could be dying. He rummaged in Roach’s saddlebags, and pulled out a small sachet of herbs. “Would you stoke the fire while you’re at it?” Jaskier asked, still shivering.

Geralt’s frown got even more pronounced, if that was even possible with such a stony expression. “You’re too warm, Jaskier. I’m worried about your fever getting worse.” Jaskier pulled out his most pleading expression—he was rather proud of it, actually, and it worked on Geralt about sixty percent of the time by now. Unfortunately, tonight was not one of those nights.

Geralt sighed. “I’ll sleep with you once I make you some tea to help with the pain and nausea,” he acquiesced, which Jaskier thought was a fair compromise.

True to his word, Geralt brought him some ginger and willow bark tea a bit later, propping Jaskier up against his chest while he drank. His stomach initially protested, and Jaskier thought he was going to lose all of Geralt’s hard work by vomiting it up again, but he managed to keep it down, and the warmth combined with Geralt’s body heat behind him quickly put an end to his shivering.

His eyes were dropping by the time he finished his tea, and with his pain finally dulled, he was able to slip back to sleep, Geralt a warm, solid presence at his back.

He had strange dreams, and it seemed like they lasted an eternity, before dawn broke. He awoke sweating, and kicked off the blanket desperately.

Geralt woke with his movements, wrapping an arm around his sticky chest. It felt utterly intolerable, and Jaskier threw it off himself.

“Jaskier?” muttered Geralt, sleep clouding his voice.

“Too hot,” he panted. The trees were spinning above him, and he shut his eyes in a vain attempt to fight off the nausea rising in him.

It didn’t work; he was forced upright as he once again expelled the contents of his stomach. He coughed, every movement agony on his cramping stomach. Tears rose to his eyes.

“Right, I’m taking you to a healer,” Geralt decided, climbing out of the bedroll. Jaskier spared a moment to mourn his comforting presence, but was overall glad that his body heat was no longer blazing beside him.

When Jaskier was done vomiting, Geralt gathered him up slowly, so as not to trigger another bout of nausea. Jaskier appreciated it, but his head still spun with the change in position. It was a little better seated on Roach, rather than swaying in Geralt’s arms, but as soon as their camp was packed up and Geralt climbed into the saddle alongside him, Jaskier changed his mind.

The constant rocking motion felt horrendous. As Roach ambled along the road, as slowly as Geralt dared, Jaskier had to lean over her side and puke multiple times, croaking out an apology each time.

And each time, Geralt forced a waterskin into his hands, demanding that he stay hydrated. It was no use; as the sun climbed higher in the sky, so did his fever, until Jaskier was sweating through his clothes, near delirious.

“Please, Jaskier, I need you to drink this,” he heard someone plead, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it.

“Mnnn,” he groaned, slumping back against hard leather. It rubbed uncomfortably against his sensitive skin, and he flopped forwards instead. A steady hand caught his chest before he got too far. Distantly, he noted that the hand was broad and strong, and felt nice. It was probably attached to a pretty nice person, too, if they were letting him ride their horse. People didn’t like it when he touched their horses, he knew.

“We’re almost there, Jaskier. It’ll be alright, we’ll take you to see a healer, and you’ll be fine,” someone was muttering in his ear. The assurances sounded nice, but he doubted he was going to be fine. He felt _awful,_ and he was pretty sure he was dying, actually. That was what happened when people got high fevers, right? That combined with the dehydration would surely kill him. He spared a thought to mourn all the things he never got to do—never got to see a dragon, never got to meet the Child Surprise, never got to visit Kaer Morhen.

“You’re not dying, Jaskier,” said the voice in his ear, but it sounded tense, growly. He didn’t like it when that voice got growly like that. It led to bad things. “If— _when_ you survive this, I’ll take you to see all of that. We’ll see as many dragons as you’d like, and I’ll collect my Law of Surprise, and we’ll go to Kaer Morhen. I promise, you just have to stay alive.”

Well, how hard could that be? He’d done it pretty well so far. This time seemed different, though; he didn’t think he’d _ever_ felt this sick, not even that time when he was six and threw up all over the Duke of Cidaris’ shoes.

His eyes slipped closed at some point, and the sound of galloping hooves faded into the background, until all he could hear was his own harsh panting, and a comforting voice in his ear. He sank deeper into darkness, and at one point fancied that he was underwater, swaying back and forth with the current. Mmm, how he’d love to be by the coast right now, smelling the sea breeze instead of horse and onion, refreshingly cold water nipping at his toes, salty wind ruffling his hair.

“We can go to the coast too. Jaskier, my love, _please,_ ” the voice broke, “Please hold on. I can’t do this without you. I love you.”

Oh, he knew the response to that one! “I love you too,” he said, or tried to say; he wasn’t sure if the words actually made it out of his mouth in the proper order. He lifted a hand to pat clumsily at the hand braced against his chest, hoping the sentiment got through.

He drifted again; when he came back to awareness, the swaying motion around him was different, less regular, and there were two strong arms, two pillars of warmth, beneath his back and his thighs. He felt the back of his head hit something soft, followed by the rest of his body sinking into pure comfort.

But then the arms retreated, and he was adrift, with nothing to tether him to the world. He whined his disapproval, and a hand was instantly back on him, rubbing soothingly up and down his arm.

He heard talking, but couldn’t decipher what the speakers were saying. If it was important, Geralt would surely let him know. The hand continued its motions, and Jaskier was once again lulled back into a doze, until he felt something at his lips.

“Drink, Jaskier, it’ll make you feel better,” said a voice next to him, and he obligingly opened his mouth so that whatever foul concoction it was could fall into his mouth. He swallowed, noting distantly that it tasted vaguely of grass. He frowned; he’d much preferred the cherries.

The medicine—for nothing else would taste as vile—slid down his throat like liquid fire, landing heavily in his stomach. “’M’gonna throw up,” he groaned.

“No, you aren’t, just wait a bit.” _How long?_ Turned out the answer was about five minutes; by that time, the nausea faded away completely, and his abdominal muscles finally relaxed for the first time in what felt like days. Little by little his head cleared, and he opened his eyes, feeling much better.

He was greeted by the sight of Geralt kneeling next to his sickbed, one hand rubbing up and down his arm, and the other gripping the sheets with white knuckles. Blue eyes met golden, and Jaskier saw relief take its place on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped, hands coming up to cup his face. “You’re alright.”

“Never better.” He grinned. “Damn, what was in that? I feel like I could run a mile,” Jaskier marveled. He truly did feel amazing; it was like all of his symptoms had been erased.

“Miracle potion,” answered Geralt. “Cures almost anything, except for death. Cost all of our coin, though, so you better earn some of that back.”

“I am forever in your debt, o handsome White Wolf.” Jaskier pushed himself into a sitting position, helped by Geralt’s hands on his back. He didn’t need it, but he supposed that Geralt needed to feel useful, needed the reassurance of Jaskier’s still-beating heart underneath his gentle touch.

“Not tonight, though,” Geralt continued, pulling Jaskier forward into a fierce hug. “Tonight I need you.”

Jaskier brought his hands up to clutch at Geralt’s back, taking comfort in the fact that both of them were here, alive, together. “Of course, darling. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Geralt nodded, hands clutching tighter, but never hard enough to hurt. “I thought…I thought you were going to die. It was bad, Jaskier,” Geralt said roughly, and Jaskier would bet his boots that Geralt was fighting back tears.

“I know, love, I’m sorry.” They stayed that way for gods only knew how long, both taking comfort in each other’s presence. Eventually, though, Jaskier broke the hug, standing up and helping Geralt to his feet. He did take Geralt’s hand in his, though, and they exited the room together to find a dark-skinned woman, presumably the healer, chopping herbs at the table.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Jaskier gushed. “I fear I owe you my life.”

“It’s what I do. My only request is that you take care of yourself from now on, no more swimming in dirty rivers.”

“That I cannot promise, as this bard’s life is full of adventurous escapades.” At her quelling look, he acquiesced. “…Though I can try?”

“It’ll have to do. Take care of yourself, witcher, bard,” she bade them, and they left the healer’s cottage, still hand-in-hand.

“Well, I, for one, feel we deserve a nice night in an inn.”

“No coin, remember?”

“Hmm, I’m sure I can convince the innkeeper somehow. My entertaining talents don’t come cheap—I’ll make the cost of a room, and then some, in a matter of minutes.”

“Keep dreaming, bard,” Geralt snorted, but his look was so fond that Jaskier knew he was teasing.

They found an inn and stabled Roach, and Jaskier was able to work out a deal with the innkeeper. That night they shared a bed, this time simply to revel in their shared closeness, rather than huddling for warmth on a forest floor, riddled with fever.

Jaskier much preferred not being sick, but almost dying came with some Geralt-shaped perks, and he intended to milk them for as long as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there's mistakes, I apologize. also I do not claim to be a medical expert by any means, so please, do not take my advice.
> 
> Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment if you liked it!


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